The Mistake of Two
by Adamus Sutekh
Summary: It was a mistake which the backspace key could never fix. (Not AU.)


Looking out into the empty coldness of space past the outline of the planet below, surveying the great beyond and the unspeakably vast expanse of frigid darkness, I think of other intervals that equal (or, in actuality and by far, transcend) this immensity.

The space between two numbers – infinite, but seemingly small in cases, especially when the numbers in question are two consecutive integers. However, no matter how little the gap there seems to be between any given numbers… it is always an infinity, an insurmountable distance for which no form of travel can surpass.

Nevertheless, for me, no matter how many decimals and rational numbers may fill these tiny gaps – it is not enough.

The gap between Number One and Number Two – that space will never be wide enough.

Because Number One is all that stands between death and me and there will be nothing and no one that can protect me once her number is up. I will be the next in line.

I am Number Two.

I have been in existence a mere five years, yet I already feel like the universe wants to prove everything I have ever known wrong.

Once, I heard that Lorien's defense would hold forever, impeccable, unbreakable, and_ perfect._ However, as I look (with wide eyes, terrified, unable to breathe) through the window of our ship, I know now that lies have always tainted my old knowledge. The planet is in ruins. Mogadorian ships make frequent departures and arrivals, collecting our resources and destroying what remains.

Behind me, a voice – from Number Three – sounds out, unclear and shaking. From the words I can hear, I infer that he is asking whether we won.

I do not even have to ask.

I already know the answer.

_No._

(It's at times like this that I feel like someone very, very old, as old as the eldest of Elders, trapped in the helpless and fragile body and mind of a young child.)

Once, my more competent teachers and tutors would say that the earlier I finish a task, the better. I have found that this usually holds true… for assignments. However, when I came here, I was the second child to arrive. That meant I would be the second to receive my number. Second in line. (Second to die.)

Suddenly, the early bird did not get the worm anymore.

Instead, that metaphorical bird was the recipient of a charm (no, a curse) and told that she would be second to perish.

Number Three is crying his eyes out, because Hilde just told him we were not the victors of the battle for Lorien. Though Number Three is to me like a beloved brother – and I love (and hate, but mostly love) him as one, I cannot comfort him at this crucial moment. If I tear my eyes away from our wounded planet (wounded, not dying, please not dying) for one second, if I miss one of these last fragments of time I have to see our beloved Lorien – I believe I will go insane.

Yet looking at the planet, growing ever smaller as we sail away, into the great beyond of space – looking at it, too, is pushing me steadily over the edge.

I pound my fists against the window once, twice – and stop.

Why can we not go back? Why did we have to lose? If only we had won, then Lorien – it would still be whole. Now, here it stands, stripped of resources, dead on the surface and only alive somewhere far beneath… I know that this is a scenario that should never have happened, in a perfect world. (But nothing and nobody and nowhere is perfect in the known imperfect universe – imperfect, imperfect, imperfect…)

_Imperfect… imperfect… imperfect…_

The words dance – no, _blaze –_ in my head, like thousands of tiny knives stabbing at my mind, relentless, never letting up. It is maddening.

_Imperfect… imperfect… imperfect…_

_Everything I have ever known is imperfect… imperfect… imperfect…_

_Imperfect… imperfect… imperfect…_

I cannot take this for too much longer. I silently will Three to leave the room, although I know that my efforts will be (will always be) fruitless… too imperfect.

_I, too, am imperfect… imperfect…_

I scream.

A pitiful excuse for a scream – that in itself is imperfect – broken halfway. Broken, like the hopeful and innocent child I am. _Was._

Nevermore am I that child. I still reside in the same body, but the gentle, perpetually happy girl I used to be is gone. (Gone forever. Never to be seen again. She is dead. I first said goodbye to her the night we left, and this is our final farewell.)

Goodbye, girl I used to be.

(_I am sorry._)

Silence falls. Three has left the room, left me alone to collect the countless infinitesimally small pieces of my sanity and perhaps rebuild them until I am once again complete enough to function. Not whole. (Maybe I shall never be complete again.) But close enough to _whole _that I can put up a façade of being… almost normal.

I think of a time when things were normal.

The time of lies.

Perfection. That is a lie. I still remember when I thought things were perfect...

Once, my Cêpan, Conrad told me… that I am intelligent. Although my intellectual quotient tests yield prestigious and elevated scores that agree with him without falter nor fail, my intuition screams at me that this, too, is a lie. Because no matter how much I try, how advanced I seem, how intelligent I may be, I am imperfect. Imperfect, and capable of making mistakes.

Conrad also says that a mistake can be good, as long as one learns from it.

Yes, that can be true… nevertheless, what if one of these days, I make a mistake – a mistake so devastating, I cannot learn from it, for it will be – ultimately – too late for me?

According to statistics I have estimated, this is likely to happen. Very likely. Moreover, unlike most of what fills my brain, this is one thing of which I am certain. I will make a mistake, fall short of the high expectations everyone (myself included) have set for me.

(Always imperfect. Striving to avoid failure, but knowing the whole time that my efforts are futile. Always. _Always._)

I am sure. So many lies cloud my judgement, lies of old that I try – hopefully not in vain – to sift through and hereby discard. However, this is the truth – the truth, which I wish to forget, but am doomed with this photographic memory (a blessing, a curse, an eternal paradox) to remember until the last breath leaves my body. The certainty, the horror of my mental revelation, will abide here forever. Any attempt to change the terrifying truth is futile.

I will make a mistake, one I cannot erase nor amend.

I know this for sure, even if it is the only thing I know.

* * *

**Author's Note: Oops! I forgot to finish one paragraph. I have fixed the problem now. Do you think I jinxed my story with its title? Because I just made a mistake.**


End file.
